


Him Whom My Soul Loves

by eirabach



Series: Testaments [4]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: M/M, This is absolute self indulgent nonsense, for my best girl, spoilers for savages if you can parse it I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27656114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: Alan keeps a secret. Until he stops.
Relationships: Alan Tracy/Brandon Berrenger
Series: Testaments [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933972
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Him Whom My Soul Loves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hodgeheg002](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hodgeheg002/gifts).



> Happy birthday Hodge my darling. You deserve the world, but here's some self indulgent boys to tide you over.

It’s a friendship. That’s what it starts as. The best, first, _only_ , and he doesn’t -- he doesn’t know, yet, why his heartbeat kicks up, why he closes his eyes against the sun on the darkest days and still sees him burning bright against closed lids.

_Him,_ not the sun. Him. Brighter and better and the stars above their heads flicker with all their falsities, all the secrets he thought he knew.

There are a lot of things he thought he knew.

It’s a realisation, dawns soft as daybreak and twice as blinding, the snow under their feet and the splinter of the board’s edge against cold hands and the laughter that echoes. Echoes off the mountains, around the quad, buries itself in the walls and under his skin. The drip, drip, drag of the day after day struck right out of the sky and --

(“ _Y_ _ou coming, Rocketboy?"_

“ _W_ _here else am I gonna go?_ ”)

Where else. Where else where else where else.

It’s a kiss. 

Half accident, half fate. 

All his.

All them.

It’s a confession. That’s what it really is. It’s a lopsided smile on lips that taste like vodka jello, warm and sticky sweet. It’s a body propped up against the doorjamb when he’s got a dozen star charts yet to plot -- and not one of them as bright as the light in those eyes.

“ _Before you start, I know you’ve got homework._ ” A breath that shudders on the exhale. “I _missed you, though_.”

“ _You’ve been gone a_ day. _”_

“ _I_ know _._ _It’s_ awful.”

It’s in the hands that are ski slope cold on his cheeks, and the earnest grumble of, “ _I’m fucking frozen man. Let me wear you like a coat._ ” 

It’s in the scoffed, scrambled retreat of, “ _That is legitimately terrifying? Am I meant to let you in now_?” and the fact that he will, and he does, and the way the world grows warmer in his wake, ski gear thrown off and body flopping onto a too small bed and the sigh -- the sigh that says _I’m home, that okay_? That answers, _yeah, yeah, always._

It’s a confession plotted in star charts against the freckles at his shoulders, along the lines of his ribs, belly shaking as he marks the constellations. Northern. Southern. Curls Ursa Minor around his navel and marks Polaris with a kiss.

_(“Is that the big bear one?”_

_“Nah. Little bear.”_

_“Uh,_ offensive _.”_

_“No, idiot. It’s the North Star, see?”)_

It’s the thud, thud, thrum of the pulse under his mouth and the way the galaxy shifts, twitches, sighs. Let’s him hold it tight between his palms and feel stardust between his fingers.

_(“Oh. So you don’t get lost.”)_

It’s the tightening of grip and the intake of breath and the pause before. The exhale after.

_(“So we don’t get lost.”)_

It’s as solemn as can be, their secrets poured into the smudging of ink. Promises in pinked cheeks and the hazy heat of mouths on skin. Not the three words, not those -- they’ve said those, in jest, in secret, in the dark of the night and under the yellow cafeteria lights. Not those. These. This truth, this thing, this deep dark whisper pressed into ink and blankets and a future they can’t yet imagine.

This is the confession that matters, that burns all the way out and down all the years to come.

Until there's VTOL and flame and sweat in his eyes, chest slashed with stolen red and brothers raised from the only mostly dead. In _mistake_ and _home_ and all the bridges he thought he’d burned but maybe -- maybe only scorched and --

(And it’s a nightmare. Smoke in his lungs, in his throat, in every desperate retch and the lights flash false. The lights flash false and, god, all anyone does anymore is _lie._

All he does is lie.

Until he doesn’t.)

Until damp palms and chapped lips and he grinds his heels into the carpet fierce against the judgement of grey eyes he barely knows and --

_(“More than the stars?”_

_“More than anything.”)_

It ends like this;

He means it.


End file.
